Chapter 7: "I Kissed A Girl"Notes:
CW: homophobia, alcohol abuse
Chapter Text
"Where the hell have you been?!"
Hermione barely had time to step past the gilded entrance before Daphne and Theo descended on her like two glittering hawks. Daphne's hand clamped around her wrist, tugging her closer, while Theo hovered behind her shoulder.
They looked her up and down as though she'd returned from a battlefield rather than the corridor outside. Hermione didn't respond. She could still feel the cold imprint of the night air on her skin, the distinct echo of her pulse in her ears, and speaking suddenly felt like more effort than she had to spare. Mostly, she could still feel the hot press of the stranger's lips on hers.
She lowered herself into the nearest empty chair, elbows resting on the polished table, head bowed for a moment as though she might steady herself on the wood.
Daphne gasped and crouched to Hermione's level, her red dress pooling dramatically around her. "You disappeared for thirty minutes," she hissed, hands fluttering like startled birds. "Thirty. Minutes. That is more than enough time to snog someone senseless. To fuck them thrice. Did you? Did you kiss that student? Did you faint? Did someone faint on you?"
Theo pulled out a chair and dropped into it backward, arms crossed over the top. "Was it the person in the silver mask?"
Hermione blinked at them both, still catching up to the speed of their barrage.
Daphne narrowed her eyes behind her lace mask. "Hermione Jean Granger, if you do not answer me within the next three seconds, I will assume you eloped with some stranger and wrote a tragic farewell letter we have not yet found."
Theo hummed. "She's probably thinking about the fact she just snogged the woman she was dancing with. Your first snog with a girl! Congrats, Granger."
His voice sounded chirpy, almost too joyful and loud to be real. Hermione finally exhaled a long, thin breath, but she didn't speak.
Daphne leaned closer, squinting her eyes. "Come on now. Spill."
Theo tapped the table with a single finger, studying her. "Yes. I want to know who's my opponent."
Daphne tensed next to him. Hermione never felt so bad about this whole situation between the three of them. Sometimes, she really wished to know if Theo was just clumsily sarcastic, or if his awkwardness was malicious. She stared at a candle's flame, letting Daphne's hand settle on her shoulder.
"Theo, please go away," she said in a calmer voice than she expected.
"What?" he exclaimed, surprised.
"You're being a douche right now. And I'd like to speak with Daphne alone."
He groaned, but ended up walking to the buffet, searching for some toasts.
"Why did he say that?" murmured Daphne.
"I don't know. I think he was joking, but that was incredibly insensitive. Can we go back to the dorm? I need... I need to speak to you, privately."
Daphne shrugged. She looked around, shoulders slumping slightly.
"Yeah. Let's get you to the common room, alright?"
Hermione let Daphne tug her out of the Great Hall, the swell of music fading behind them as the doors shut with a soft thud. The corridor outside felt strangely quiet after the whirl of masks, lights, and shifting crowds. Their footsteps echoed faintly over the flagstones, Daphne's heels clicking with theatrical irritation.
Hermione kept her hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting, heart fluttering far too quickly for someone who was merely leaving a party. The cool air of the hallways soothed the flush on her cheeks, but her mind refused to calm.
The kiss returned to her in sharp, dizzying flashes. Fingers against her jaw, the brush of a thumb near her ear, the soft warmth of lips meeting hers, tentative at first, then blooming. The strong scent and taste of champagne between them. The way the stranger had leaned in ever so slightly, like she hadn't wanted to pull away. And their voice...
Hermione swallowed hard, her breath catching as the memory flickered again. That strange pull low in her stomach resurfaced each time she replayed the moment.
"Are you going to explain," Daphne asked, though her voice was softened by tiredness now, "or is it too hard and you want to keep it to yourself?"
Hermione murmured an absent apology, gaze drifting somewhere past the torches lining the walls. She couldn't think clearly enough to form explanations, not when the phantom sensation of lips still lingered against her own.
Her thoughts spiraled again. Who had kissed her? The woman's hands had been soft. Her voice low. Her posture elegant. Her scent... strangely familiar. Citrus. Something tugged at Hermione's mind. The woman's silhouette... a particular tilt of the head... a nervous tension right beneath their calm...
Her heart sped up violently. No. She couldn't allow herself to think of it now.
She had tried to chase the thought down anyway, tried to rationalize why the woman's touch had felt so oddly electric, why she knew her smell, why she knew some of the cracks in her voice, why it felt like she could predict her way of wording her thoughts, why something in her had recognized her without understanding. But the idea forming in her mind was too big to bear. She shook her head sharply, banishing it before it could solidify.
Daphne kept talking, something about blisters on her feet, the horrors of wearing lace masks, how Theo had acted like a jerk and what he meant by his "opponents", but Hermione barely heard her. Her pulse thrummed too loudly in her ears.
They turned a final corner, the path narrowing, the air cooler. Hermione breathed in deeply, trying to calm the dizzy swirl in her chest. She was overthinking. Of course she was. She always did. And whoever that woman was, she had already vanished into the corridors, leaving Hermione alone because she wasn't ready to face whatever had just happened.
Daphne finally slowed, brushing a loose curl behind Hermione's ear with unexpected softness. "You look like you're solving three Arithmancy proofs at once," she murmured.
Hermione forced a faint smile. "Just thinking."
Daphne didn't believe her, but she didn't press. They stepped together toward the familiar stretch of bare stone wall, but no one said the password. Hermione felt twitchy now. She glanced at Daphne, and then finally took off her mask. The blonde did the same, sighing of relief when she felt the cool air of the corridor hit her face.
"Did you know who that girl was when you pushed me to talk to her?" Hermione asked.
"Of course not. I just thought it would do you good to finally have a chance to experiment with a woman instead of obsessing over Pansy Parkinson. Why, do you think you know her?"
Hermione swallowed her saliva hard, fleeing Daphne's eyes.
"At first, I was sure I couldn't possibly know this girl. She was nice and honest, but she didn't remind me of anything. And then we danced, and I could smell her, and she just... her perfume reminded me of something. Like I had spent a lot of time smelling it without remembering where it came from. Then we left to talk more privately in the corridors, and I started to have doubts. So I talked about books. To let her know some clues about who I was. I think she was pretty tipsy, and she didn't connect the dots, and—"
Hermione interrupted herself to take her breath. Her heart was racing now, her lungs filling up and empty quickly. She batted her eyes, swaying on her feet. Daphne's eyes suddenly opened wide.
"And then what?" she asked, her voice more high pitched than before.
"I think Pansy Parkinson kissed me."
"NO WAY."
Hermione turned around to see if anyone was listening, hissing at how loud Daphne yelled.
"I'm almost one hundred percent sure it was her, Daphne, but she was so different and so nice, and open, I don't know! It felt like I was talking to Pansy without her mask! Which is kind of ironic, admittedly, but..."
"Wait," suddenly cut off Daphne. "When did you start to think she was Parkinson?"
Hermione bit her lip.
"After the dance."
"You talked to her afterwards?! You let her kiss you?! PANSY PARKINSON KISSED A GIRL?!"
Panicked, Hermione casted a quick Silencio, and Daphne's lips kept moving but no sound came out.
"I was curious to see if I was really talking to the real, unwatered version of Pansy, alright?! And then I... I lost control! And she lifted her mask and kissed me! I'm trying so hard to convince myself it wasn't her, that Pansy Parkinson couldn't ruin my real first kiss with a girl! But Daphne, as hard as I try to deny it, I swear it was her!"
After saying that, Hermione rested her back against the cold stone wall, trying to breathe normally. She lifted the spell of Daphne and took her face in her hands. Her legs were still trembling harder than ever.
"I knew Parkinson was hiding something. She's way too polished, too perfect, too fitting."
"Her sexual orientation shouldn't be weaponised, and that comes from someone who hates her. I hate her Daphne, but I won't hit her there. It's too much. It's not me. It's not who I am, what I believe. I don't know. I should use this against her. She treated me like garbage for years. But..."
"But you like women too," continued Daphne in a softer voice. "That would feel like a personal betrayal."
"I don't even... I never even connected with that aspect of myself before," stuttered Hermione. "I never cared."
Daphne took a step closer, resting her hand on Hermione's arm.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing. There's nothing to do. Parkinson probably didn't recognise me, and that's for the best. But if she did..."
"You need to come up with a plan to outsmart her," guessed Daphne.
"I think so, yes. If she did recognise me, why did she kiss me?"
"Press on the matter. Only fools don't realise Pansy has one of those playground crush on you. The sort of crush that makes you look for the slightest bit of attention from that person. Pansy chose to anger you because it's the only way she has to talk to you and... Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this, but... it's her own twisted way of being close to you."
"Am I drunk too or does that makes twisted sense?" sighed Hermione.
"It does. Use it wisely, Hermione. It could be your best shot at finally walking over her. Or... it could be a chance to change the way you two act together and maybe create something else."
"No," abruptly cut off Hermione. "I can be okay with liking girls. I can't be okay with liking Pansy."
"I agree," replied Daphne. "She made your life hell. She never apologised."
"And I don't want to force an apology."
"Then we keep going like we planned to. You keep making her life hell back. And we ignore what just happened."
Hermione nodded. Daphne was right, this was the best solution, the safest. Still, one point remained.
She had kissed Pansy back. She hadn't told that to Daphne. She wouldn't do it.
"You should go back to the party. Make Theodore suffer a little for being... well, being Theodore," suggested Hermione for a while.
"I don't want to leave you alone," said Daphne in a little voice.
Hermione smiled, feeling her heart warming up. "I'll be fine, Greengrass. I want to be alone anyway. You give Theo a piece of your mind. He doesn't get to play with your feelings like that. You deserve so much better."
Daphne sniffled, carefully wiping her eyes to avoid smudging her mascara. She hugged Hermione tight, her long nails slightly scratching her skin over her suit. Hermione didn't mind. She hugged her back, kissing her forehead.
"Sometimes I wish I was gay because you'd be a much better boyfriend than him."
Hermione laughed. "Bloody hell, go, Daphne. Kick your man's arse for me."
"Certainly," the blonde answered.
She turned away, and Hermione watched Daphne disappear down the corridor in a swirl of deep blue satin before turning back toward the entrance of the Slytherin common room.
The stone door groaned shut behind her. A heavy hush settled over her shoulders immediately, a familiar weight, cool and still, the slight scent of kelp entering Hermione's nostrils. Slytherin's house quarters always smelled like kelp.
The common room was dark except for the faint shimmer of enchanted lanterns drifting lazily beneath the vaulted ceiling. Their green glow reflected in the black marble floor, turning the room into a dim, shimmering pool of light and shadow. The lake outside pressed against the broad windows, a dark mass broken only by ribbons of moonlight slicing through the water. Occasionally, a ripple showed an eerie, wavering pattern of silver-green across the far wall.
The large fireplace at the center had burned low, embers pulsing in soft, tired breaths. The smell of ash and old books lingered in the air, mixed with the faint tang of damp stone. Everything felt deserted, chairs left slightly askew, textbooks stacked carelessly on a table, a discarded mask hanging crookedly on the back of a leather armchair.
Hermione took two steps inside before a soft sound reached her. A stifled, uneven gasp. Then another.
Her gaze snapped immediately toward the long emerald sofa near the fire.
Parkinson lay curled there, half-sprawled, half-folded into herself like she had collapsed rather than chosen a position. One arm dangled limply off the edge, fingers grazing the floor. Her short black hair pilled messily over the cushions. The expensive silk of her robe was wrinkled and twisted around her legs, one strap slipping down her shoulder.
Her mask had been tossed aside, lying on the floor like something she'd ripped off in a moment of panic. Her boots were gone. One heel lay abandoned near the fireplace.
And she was crying.
Not the sharp, furious tears Hermione saw people shedding when they were angry or humiliated. These were quieter, broken in a way Hermione had never heard from Pansy before. Her shoulders trembled with each sob, her breath catching dangerously between them.
A champagne bottle glittered on the low table, catching what little light the lanterns offered. One flute rolled slowly along the surface as if recently nudged.
Hermione froze when she looked more closely at the mask. Yes, its owner had definitely kissed her tonight. And its owner was currently wearing that same black dress Hermione had gripped.
Her first instinct was to turn away, to step back and let Pansy tear herself apart alone, but it felt cruel even for her. The sight of Pansy like this, undone, soft, small, rooted her to the stone floor. The lanterns' shadows seemed to hold their breath around Pansy, the lanterns glowing faintly as if dimming out of respect.
Hermione swallowed.
She couldn't remember ever seeing Pansy Parkinson look fragile. Not even once. And yet she was here, a collapsed tangle of silk and alcohol and tears on a sofa far too big for her.
Hermione took a slow, quiet step forward. Then another. She took a closer look at Pansy's face. She was pissed drunk, black mascara cascading on her cheeks, her eyelids closed, her lipstick smudged. Hermione thought with a pang of irony it was a stupid idea to wear makeup under a mask, and realized with horror she could guess the taste of Pansy's lipstick, simply because there were still remnants on the brunette's lips.
"Parkinson? Are you alright?"
"Life's over," grunted Pansy, pressing her hands against her eyeballs.
Hermione sighed, already irritated because of the decision she was about to make.
"No it's not. Come on, let's get you to bed."
"I'm disgusting..."
Pansy sobbed harder. Hermione's heart clenched. She grabbed her arm, lifting her to make her sit on the sofa, before sliding it under Pansy's shoulders.
"Come on, get up. I'm taking you to bed, but I need help."
"I'm an error of nature..."
"There's no such thing," argued Hermione, huffing when she yanked her forward and helped her to stand up. An overwhelming cloud of alcohol attacked her nose. "You were born the way you are. Your education influenced you to think you were abnormal. Abnormality doesn't exist, or else we'd all be freaks."
"I kissed a girl," eructed Pansy. "It's filthy."
"It's not. You liked it."
"Yes I liked it," she cried, her voice loud and whiny.
Hermione rolled her eyes but smirked interiorly. She eased Pansy's legs by casting a silent Wingardium Leviosa, making her foot float above the stairs. Pansy gripped her shoulder and made her wince in pain, but Hermione didn't protest. When they arrived at the dormitory, Hermione slowly opened the door. She nudged Pansy to keep walking and carefully helped her lying on her bed. When she was about to drop Pansy, the latter gripped her shoulders harder, her nose brushing her neck.
"I don't want to be a freak, I don't want to be rejected, I don't want to be sick like this," she sobbed, snorting against Hermione's neck.
"You're not a freak. It's normal, Pansy, and you don't have to let it define your life."
"You don't understand," she whined, hitting Hermione's back with her palm. She reeked of alcohol so strong Hermione herself started to feel more tipsy than she already was. "People will hate me... and I'll never be happy..."
Hermione felt a sudden wave of sadness hit her. It was brutal. She didn't expect to feel empathy towards Pansy, but here she was. She rooted out of Pansy's arms and helped lying on her bed, delicately grabbing her hips to make her lie on her back.
"Do you have sobering potion in there?"
"Nuh..."
"Good luck then," whispered Hermione.
Pansy emitted a small moan, followed by a snore. Hermione estimated she had done enough. She looked at her one last time. She didn't understand why there were tears in her eyes now. Nor did she understand why her heart was clenched so hard. As she was walking to her own bed, she distinctly heard Pansy murmuring in her alcohol indulged sleep.
"Granger..."
Hermione clenched her teeth. She closed her four posters bed and took off her dress, slipping into her pyjamas.
She didn't know what this half-moaned "Granger" meant. Did Pansy realise whom she had kissed? Or was she just thinking of her? Actually, did Pansy realise Hermione had been the one putting her to bed? Hermione wasn't sure, but she knew tomorrow morning would be interesting, to say the least.
Surprisingly, sleep found her quickly. She closed her eyes, and the last thing she thought about before falling asleep, was the feel of Pansy fucking Parkinson's lips.
Unsurprisingly, the first thing Hermione thought about after waking up, was the feel of Pansy fucking Parkinson's lips. Hermione started to believe the latter had cursed her or something, because she swore she could still feel the hotness, the wetness of her lips and the small kissing sounds they had produced when Hermione responded.
So, the first thing Hermione did when she woke up was groaning, and jumping to the showers. She let the dormitory door close behind her with a soft click, the image of Pansy curled and trembling on the sofa still heavy on her mind. She didn't know why she stayed rooted there last night, watching from a distance rather than approaching for a few minutes. Why she had taken so long to finally help Pansy instead of just ogling her like a madwoman. And she didn't know why she had fled to bed afterward with her heart hammering and her thoughts spiraling into madness.
Now, early morning light filtered through the high, underwater windows of the Slytherin girls' bathroom, pale and wavering as if she stood at the bottom of a green-tinted sea. Hermione stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. The tiles were cold under her feet. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and lake water.
She turned on the shower tap.
Steam filled the room almost immediately, curling around her ankles, rising up to fog the mirrors. Hermione stepped under the stream of hot water and let her head fall back, eyes slipping shut.
It should have calmed her, but it didn't.
Because all she could think about, again, impossibly, unavoidably, were Pansy's lips.
Not bare. Not visible. Hidden beneath the edge of that mask. But she remembered them anyway, she remembered their warmth, their softness, how gentle Pansy had been at first, as though unsure she was allowed to take what she wanted. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as the memory pressed against her mind with disarming clarity.
Her hands reached the back of her neck, massaging her scalp in an attempt to ground herself. She had to stop thinking about it. Everything about that kiss was insane, absurd.
Because the moment she touched her own skin, she remembered the stranger's fingers sliding into her hair. Pansy's fingers. She had forced herself to think it wasn't Pansy. And at the same time, another part of her brain had yelled at her to keep going, to see how Pansy could be when she was her true self. Because Hermione would recognise that faint scent of citrus and green apples she'd smelled a thousand times passing Pansy in class.
Hermione swallowed hard, letting the water rush over her shoulders.
"Mental," she whispered to the empty shower stall. "Completely mental."
She had kissed Pansy Parkinson.
And she had liked it. Worse! She had wished it could last a little longer. She had wished to have time to taste her tongue too. She had wished to hear all the quiet and wet sounds Pansy could emit.
Hermione scrubbed her skin harder. She had to get a grip on herself.
And now? Now she didn't know what to expect from her. Pansy had been drunk and distraught when Hermione found her last night. She'd been in no state to pretend, no state to manipulate, no state to hide behind her usual cruelty.
Of course she had been in such terrible state because of the kiss.
Hermione pressed her palms over her face, letting the water crash down her arms in heavy sheets.
Had Pansy known who she was kissing?
That was the question that refused to let her go.
Had Pansy realised the girl in the white mask was Hermione Granger, her lovely roommate she loved to despise, the one she bickered with every single day? Or had she simply kissed a stranger because, for once in her life, she had been able to choose desire without judgment?
Hermione's stomach tightened.
And if Pansy had known, why had she made the first step? Could Daphne be right about that... playground crush?
It wasn't a playground crush. Pansy had insulted her for years. She had ridiculed her, made classist comments to her, discriminated her. Hermione couldn't forgive that. She also couldn't understand why Pansy was intriguing her so much.
The steamy air felt too thick. Hermione dragged her fingers slowly down her arms as if that could settle her racing thoughts, but her mind only spun faster. Every detail of the masquerade scene replayed itself in unforgiving clarity, the moonlight, the hush of the corridor, the way Pansy had looked at her like she was something dangerously alive.
Hermione braced one hand against the tile wall, lowering her head as hot water coursed down her back. Her heartbeat was too loud. Her breathing too shallow.
"What has this bitch done to me..." she whispered.
She didn't have answers, but she could feel the shift inside her, the awareness she couldn't unfeel, the electric tension she knew would snap taut the next time she saw Pansy in the corridor, in Potions, anywhere.
And what would Pansy do? Pretend nothing happened? This was the best outcome, the most plausible one.
Attack her with insults to cover up her fear? No one had seen them. Pansy probably hadn't even realised Hermione had been the one to take her to bed. No one had seen them. Pansy had no reason to fear that and attack back.
Maybe she would look at her with that same flushed, shaken expression she'd worn when Hermione pinned her? This was the worst outcome, worse than the attacks, worse than pure ignorance. Hermione didn't know how to face this.
Her breath hitched. She shut off the water before her spiraling could drag her any deeper.
Stepping out, she wrapped herself in a towel, the air cool against her flushed skin. The mirror was still fogged, giving her reflection a blurry, ghost-like softness she didn't quite recognize. For a long moment, she simply stared, as though expecting the fog to lift and give her answers she didn't have.
When she finally dressed, uniform crisp, hair still damp around her shoulders, her movements were brisk, almost hurried. Daphne would be waiting for her in the Great Hall, ready to chatter, to tease, to spin last night's chaos into something manageable. Hermione desperately needed that.
She grabbed her bag, took one last steadying breath, and rushed out of the bathroom, her footsteps echoing through the quiet dungeon corridor as she hurried toward breakfast.
Hermione entered the Great Hall with her hair still slightly damp, the collar of her uniform scratching her neck. Breakfast was well underway, clattering cutlery, chatter bouncing off stone walls, owls swooping overhead in a flurry of wings. She scanned the Slytherin table, already braced for Daphne's usual morning theatrics. Pansy wasn't there. Draco was snagging Astoria, and Blaise looked at them with nothing but boredom.
She spotted Daphne immediately. She sat stiffly beside Theodore, arms crossed tightly over her chest, jaw clenched. Theo attempted a joke, Hermione could tell by the way his lips stretched, hopeful and lopsided, but Daphne didn't even spare him a glance.
Oh dear.
Hermione approached, quietly sliding into the seat across from them. Daphne's eyes snapped to her.
"There you are," she muttered, relieved but still brimming with irritation. "Finally."
Hermione lifted her hands defensively. "I overslept."
"You never oversleep."
Hermione didn't reply, instead reaching for the nearest carafe of coffee. "Well. I did today. You could have woken me up by the way." She poured her cup a bit too quickly, almost spilling, but the familiar smell was grounding, warm. She clutched the mug with both hands and took a long sip.
Theo opened his mouth as if about to greet her, but Daphne cut him a glare sharp enough to impale.
He wisely shut it.
Hermione blinked. "Everything... all right?"
Daphne's nostrils flared. "Ask him."
"Nah," Theo muttered, looking down at his plate.
Hermione took another sip of coffee, choosing survival over curiosity. Whatever argument the two had gotten up in last night, she absolutely did not have the emotional bandwidth to untangle it. Not today. Not after the night she'd had. And certainly not with thoughts of Pansy still ghosting through her mind whenever she blinked too slowly. She felt bad for Daphne, but certainly not Theo.
She drained her cup in three efficient swallows.
Daphne stared at her. "You're not eating?"
"Not hungry."
Daphne's expression softened. "Still stressed about last night?"
Hermione nearly choked. "Something like that."
Daphne sighed, sweeping her blonde hair back with a quick, impatient motion. "Fine. Come on then. I'll walk you to class."
Theo perked up. "I can walk—"
"No." Daphne grabbed her bag with a single decisive motion, like she was ordering a dog around. "You stay."
Theo frowned, wounded. "I didn't even do anything!"
"You don't even realise what you do and what you don't! That's the problem!" Daphne snapped before turning on her heel and stalking toward the doors.
Hermione hesitated only a moment before following, catching up to Daphne's brisk, stormy stride in the corridor.
Once they were out of the Great Hall, the tension around Daphne deflated, only slightly, but enough for Hermione to breathe again. She kept her gaze forward, grateful her friend didn't mention Pansy, didn't mention the kiss, didn't mention anything Hermione wasn't ready to confront. For once, it was blessedly quiet between them.
They descended the dungeon stairs, the stone walls cooling the air around them.
Daphne exhaled slowly. "Sorry about that. Theo pissed me off last night."
Hermione nodded. "He usually is."
A reluctant, tired smile tugged at Daphne's lips. "Fair point."
"Did you tell him how insensitive he was?"
"How could I say that without showing how I truly feel—hi Harry!"
Hermione adjusted her bag and smiled, waving at Harry and Ron who were entering the potions classroom. The knot in her stomach tightening as they approached the classroom door looming ahead, the familiar greenish torchlight reflecting off the cold floor.
Daphne stopped, turning to her with a raised eyebrow. "You're sure you're all right?"
"Fine," Hermione lied smoothly.
Daphne hummed, unconvinced but willing to let it go. "I'll see you after, then."
Hermione nodded, forced a breath, and stepped toward the classroom just as the dungeon clock chimed the start of the hour. Her heartbeat thudded hard when she saw Pansy already at their shared workstation.
She'd half expected to find the table empty, or worse, to hear that Pansy had drunk herself straight into Pomfrey's ward overnight. But there she was. Upright. Present. Breathing.
Pansy looked put together, technically. Her hair was immaculate, black bangs perfectly straight. Her uniform was crisp, pressed, even elegant. But there were dark circles under her brown-black eyes, poorly muted with makeup that creased faintly at the edges. Her posture was stiff, shoulders high, as if her spine were holding her together on sheer pride alone.
Hermione approached the table cautiously and slid onto her stool. Pansy didn't turn her head. She snapped it, sharp and venomous, her dark hooded eyes narrowing with a glare that could cut through cauldrons.
"What d'you want?!"
Hermione blinked at her. Then simply rolled her eyes, opening her notes with deliberate calm. Rabid dog it was. "It's class, Parkinson. I want to learn."
Pansy scoffed and looked away, arms crossing tightly over her chest, jaw set in a way that made her cheekbones stand out even more.
Hermione refused to be rattled. She straightened her parchment, tightened the tie of her apron, and focused on the golden, far from being completed Felix Felicis simmering in the cauldron between them. It had been brewing for weeks now, long, careful weeks full of stirring patterns and precise temperature shifts and ingredients added. Today they were beginning the third stages, the trickiest.
She checked the consistency. Silky. Frothy at the edges. Good.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Pansy reach for the ingredients list, hands steady but movements short, brittle. Hermione tried not to look at her too openly, but she couldn't ignore the faint tremor when Pansy uncorked a vial, or the way she sniffed once, quietly, as if her composure were beginning to be hard to maintain.
Hermione measured out the powdered moonstone.
Pansy glared at her again, as if the very act of existing in her vicinity was a personal affront.
Hermione kept her voice level. "Do you want to add it, or should I?"
"I don't care," Pansy muttered, eyes fixed on the cauldron but not truly seeing it.
Hermione shrugged and added it herself, stirring clockwise. If Pansy wanted to keep being a cunt, it was not Hermione's problem.
The potion shimmered briefly, catching the torchlight like flecks of sunlight on metal. Beautiful. A small, perfect moment.
She allowed herself one single thought:
At least she's here, alive, hungover, furious... but here. Hermione needed her for the potion, whether she liked it or not.
Pansy shifted beside her, chin lifted stubbornly, as if daring Hermione to comment on anything, her mood, her appearance, her exhaustion.
Hermione smiled.
She kept stirring. Let the potion thicken.
"Looking good today, Parkinson."
"What?!" she shrieked.
A few heads turned to them.
"I like the makeup. It makes the circles under your eyes even darker," said Hermione casually, tilting her head.
Pansy banged her spoon against the table.
"What's your issue, Granger? Why do you always get on my nerves this easily? Piss off!"
"Be quiet, do you want me to take points from you? I'm a Head Girl, I could always do that even if you're in my own house."
"Piss off," repeated Pansy aggressively.
"You're acting like a rabid dog. I thought you would thank me for helping you during the aftermaths of your activities last—"
Hermione got abruptly cut off when Pansy pressed her hand against her mouth. The latter was opening her eyes wide, as if Hermione had confirmed one of her deepest fears. She cursed under her breath, looking around her to check if Slughorn was looking at them.
"Do you know something?" she murmured, her forehead almost bumping against Hermione's.
Alright, maybe Pansy wasn't drunk enough to forget Hermione had been the one to put her to bed. Which meant, she knew Hermione had heard everything she said about... being gay. Hermione bit the skin of her palm, making her hiss. She crossed her arms and braced herself. There was nothing else to do anyway. "I might know something."
Pansy squinted her eyes even harder, almost closing them.
"Meet me after class. Bitch."
Chapter 8: Switching SidesChapter Text
Pansy kept her eyes fixed on the golden surface of the potion, letting the soft simmer lull her so she could concentrate better. Anything was better than thinking about how close Granger was, or how Granger smelled despite the heavy fumes that filled the dungeon. It was ridiculous that she could notice it at all. The air was thick with ingredients, with steam, with chalk dust and boiling extracts, yet underneath it all was something warm and clean that did not belong in a dungeon. She caught it whenever Hermione leaned forward slightly, whenever she brushed a stray curl behind her ear, whenever she breathed. This floral cloud threaded through the fog of scents like a quiet intrusion, uninvited but impossible to ignore. Pansy hated that she recognised it. She hated even more that it made her stomach twist.
She measured out a pinch too much crushed valerian and clicked her tongue with irritation, brushing it off her fingers. She refused to look to her right, refused to acknowledge the steady presence of Hermione's body beside her. They never sat close, not truly, but today it felt unbearably noticeable. She was too aware of the slight warmth radiating from her shoulder, too aware of the soft scrape of her quill on parchment, too aware of the faint breath Hermione released when reading something carefully. It was absurd that Pansy heard it at all. The dungeon was full of clattering cauldrons and muttering Slytherins and first year Hufflepuffs who kept letting their spoons clank like idiots. Yet somehow, Hermione's small, quiet sounds pressed at her attention like fingertips against glass.
It was a constant reminder of Pansy's internal questioning. Did Hermione know...?
Pansy didn't remember most of last night's events. She remembered dancing with a woman, talking about poetry, kissing. She remembered running away with a bottle of champagne. She couldn't remember properly what had happened between the moment she had went to bed and the moment she had entered the common room. But she knew Granger was here, somehow. Pansy couldn't tell if she had let out something embarrassing during her alcohol coma, and cursed herself for it. Granger could potentially detain very compromising information. And that was freaking Pansy out.
Every few minutes, they muttered something sour at each other. A snide comment about stirring technique, a remark about reading comprehension, a haughty reply about patience or common sense. Nothing sharp enough to draw blood. Nothing that would have counted as real venom. It was almost polite, in the way two cats might hiss without lifting a paw. Pansy could not decide if the gentleness irritated her or relieved her. Something between both kept digging under her skin.
Hermione leaned closer to adjust the flame beneath the cauldron, and the movement pushed a soft wave of warmth against Pansy's arm. Pansy held her breath for a moment as if that would help. It did not. Hermione's hair smelled faintly of jasmine and something like parchment sun-warmed in a window. Tea. She smelled like tea. It was this exact smell Pansy had tried to decipher for the last hour. And Pansy wished she did not know that.
She also wished she could forget last night entirely, could wipe the taste of masked lips from her memory, could pretend that she had not made a catastrophic mistake in a dark corridor with rain streaking the courtyard outside. And she also wished it hadn't felt this amazing.
Even hungover and exhausted, she could recall the softness, the warmth, the way her breath had hitched. She had kissed a stranger, a faceless girl that had made her float out of her body for a night. She had kissed a girl. She had liked it. She had enjoyed finally feeling free for one little night. She had remembered how enticing and hot the moment had felt when she woke up with champagne dried at the corner of her mouth and panic punching at her ribs.
She stirred the potion and kept her face still. She hoped Granger didn't know she had kissed a girl. She hoped she hadn't let out anything about it when Granger had been there during her alcohol peak.
Hermione wrote something in the margin of the recipe. Her sleeve brushed Pansy's wrist, barely a whisper of contact, and Pansy flinched almost imperceptibly. Had they always sat this close in potions? She forced her hand to relax immediately. Hermione did not look at her, and Pansy was grateful for that small mercy.
The Felix Felicis had begun to glow with the soft sheen Slughorn loved to brag about, the kind of glow he described as molten sunlight. Pansy usually found that description unbearably dramatic, but today she could not deny it. The surface rippled with liquid gold, smooth and bright. It was perfect. Or nearly perfect, if they did not ruin something in the next five minutes. She forced her mind to settle, to focus on the way the liquid thickened, on the precise clockwise motion required to keep it stable. She could do this. She had brewed complex potions before, never this complex, but still. She had been praised for her precision since she was old enough to hold a wooden spoon in her mother's kitchen. She was Pansy Parkinson, and she did not unravel over a girl, especially not Granger, when all her brain would think was that anonymous kiss.
She added the powdered moonstone at exactly the right second. Hermione adjusted the flame with the same instinctive timing. Their actions synced without any words exchanged, something that would normally irritate Pansy greatly. Today it only made her pulse behave strangely.
Slughorn's cheerful voice burst through the haze of potion fumes. He waddled toward their table with his usual enthusiasm, clasping his hands dramatically in front of his chest. Pansy stepped back slightly to give him room, although her breath still felt trapped in her ribs.
He peered into their cauldron with wide, gleaming eyes. The golden light reflected off his small spectacles, and his mustache was making him look almost like a seal. Pansy waited for the usual fuss, the rambling, the tangents about talented former students. Instead, he clapped his hands once, delighted and loud.
"Magnificent," he declared, letting the word hang heavily over the room. "Truly magnificent. Look at that sheen. Look at that texture. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Pansy's stomach tightened, although she did not show it. Instead, she quickly glanced at Granger and showed her a proud smirk.
Hermione straightened, posture crisp but a small smile tugging at her lips.
Slughorn continued praising the potion's clarity and glow, then finally announced what Pansy had secretly feared since the beginning of the lesson.
"You two may begin the next phase," he said with satisfaction. "Half an hour of careful stirring every evening for the next three weeks, starting from today. A long commitment, but one that will yield extraordinary results, I assure you."
Pansy felt the blood drain from her face.
Three weeks. Every evening. Stirring the potion. Here. With Granger. Alone in the quiet dungeon while other students disappeared into the castle. Three entire weeks of sitting close enough to feel her breath, close enough to smell her hair, close enough to remember every mistake Pansy had made.
She swallowed once, sharply, as if trying to force her panic back down her throat.
Three weeks.
She might actually die.
Slughorn quickly looked at his watch and gave them a radiant smile. "Tonight, at exactly 8:13. Be on time! I'll make sure Professor Snape will adjust your Head Girl patrol, Miss Granger. You're both free to go now. And twenty points for Slytherin, for this flawless brewing. Keep going, young ladies!"
Pansy did not hear any of it. Her pulse thudded so loudly in her ears that the room might as well have gone silent. She watched Hermione gather her notes with that maddening calm, tucking a curl behind her ear as if she had not just been informed they would be chained even tighter to each other every evening for three unbearable weeks.
Pansy did not think. Her body moved before her mind caught up. Her hand shot out and closed firmly around Hermione's wrist.
"Hey—" started Hermione, irritated.
"Shut your mouth and follow me. I said I needed to talk to you!"
Pansy felt the tiny jolt under her fingertips, the quickened beat beneath Hermione's skin, the warmth of her pulse. It made her breath falter.
She tugged sharply, leading Hermione through the tables of students looking at them with envy, some of them looking at their greenish potions that were about to fail. Hermione followed, stumbling once, recovering, then walking stiffly beside her, letting Pansy guide her without protest. Pansy did not dare look at her. If she did, she might lose what little remained of her composure. She didn't question why Granger was so lenient with her today. It would drive her into madness.
The cupboard door was just ahead, half-hidden between two supply shelves. Pansy yanked it open, unceremoniously pushed Hermione inside, and stepped in after her. The moment she pulled the door shut, darkness swallowed them whole.
The space was small. Too small. Their shoulders brushed. Their breaths mingled immediately in the warm, stale air. Hermione exhaled sharply, the sound soft, confused, and far too close. Pansy pressed her back against the shelves, trying to create distance, but the cupboard offered none. They were caught between wood and stone and the steady pounding of Pansy's own heart. She could almost feel Hermione's body heat.
Pansy could smell her again. Tea. Jasmine. Something clean, something unbearably gentle. The scent drifted through the confined space like a provocation. Pansy shut her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to steady herself. She had dragged Hermione in here with a purpose, a clear and necessary purpose, but the closeness made her thoughts unravel like loose threads.
Hermione shifted, her shoulder brushing Pansy's, and Pansy nearly flinched. The slight brush felt amplified in the darkness, intimate and electric. Hermione's breathing was even, controlled, but Pansy could hear the faintest hitch now that they were trapped in each other's air.
Pansy realised her hand was still around Hermione's wrist. She let go immediately, as if burned, fingers twitching from the lingering warmth.
The cupboard felt too hot. Too quiet. Too full of everything Pansy had been trying not to think about.
Hermione said something. Pansy could not immediately process the words. Her panic roared beneath her ribs, pushing at her ribs and throat, a rising tide that made it difficult to breathe normally. She focused on staying upright, on keeping her expression sharp even though Hermione probably could not see it in the dark.
Hermione shifted slightly closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the air move between them. The cupboard was suffocating. Their proximity was even worse.
"Parkinson, are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah!" exclaimed Pansy, waving her hand as if she were chasing flies away. "I needed to talk to you," she repeated, feeling her face getting increasingly hotter.
The light was dim, only coming from the embrasure of the door, but she saw Granger smirk, amused. "Yeah, I gathered that, since you told me at least three times. Come on. Spill now."
"Were you with me last night?" abruptly asked Pansy.
Granger raised her eyebrows. She took a step back, crossing her arms. She took her time to answer, looking like she was searching a way to carefully word her response.
"You don't remember anything?"
"I remember some... things," replied Pansy with disdain, mimicking her posture, her foot nonchalantly kicking a pebble on the floor. The pebble directly hit Granger's calf. She grunted.
"Pansy, we had sex."
"THE FUCK?"
Pansy's jaw opened so wide she heard it cracking. There was no way. Granger was lying. It was impossible. But after a few seconds, Hermione pressed her hands on her knees and burst out laughing. Offended, Pansy kicked her calf. Willingly, this time.
"Why would you say that?!" hissed Pansy.
"Because I love watching you go mad," giggled Granger, raising her head.
Pansy grabbed Hermione's tie and clenched her jaw.
"Tell me what happened and how, somehow, we talked."
"Christ, okay," groaned Hermione, still chuckling.
Pansy didn't drop her tie. She yanked it closer, until Hermione had to step closer again to avoid being choked.
"I found you almost passed out drunk in the common room with a bottle of champagne. So I helped you get into bed."
"How... chivalrous. Did I say something to you?"
"You weren't very loquacious," said Granger.
She looked more serious now.
"Did I say something in particular?" repeated Pansy, her patience running thin.
Hermione chewed her lip. She sighed, closing briefly her eyes.
"Yes, you did."
Pansy's heart felt very low in her chest, reaching the ground before sinking below it.
"What did I..." she choked.
"You... you were crying. You said you were a freak. That what you did was unnatural and dirty."
Pansy kept her mouth tightly closed, feeling tears rising to her eyes.
"Parkinson, I... I really, really don't like you," said Granger softly. "But... you're not a freak for being attracted to women. It's just who you are, a part of your identity. It's not something you should blame yourself for. It's not something you can change either."
Pansy dropped her tie. She pressed her back harder against the stone wall, feeling burning tears running down her cheeks. She gripped her wand, taking it out of her robes, and pressed it against Hermione's throat. She heard her breath hitch.
"If you repeat this to anyone, I'll make sure to be the last thing you see before you die."
"I didn't plan on telling anyone," replied Granger, looking down at Pansy's wand.
"Good."
Pansy didn't put her wand away. She looked deep into the warm brown of Hermione's irises, and tried to gather her focus to correctly apply the spell she was about to cast.
"Oblivi—"
"No!" abruptly cut off Granger.
She grabbed Pansy's wrist with surprising strength, making her wand fall off her hand. Suddenly, she pushed Pansy harder against the wall, pressing her forearm against her throat to block her.
"You will not erase this from my memory, Parkinson! You should have thought about it before getting pissed drunk on a Thursday night!"
"You think I'll allow you to use this as a way to pressure me?!" exploded Pansy.
"If it can stop your constant habit of ruining my life, then yes, I will use it!" yelled Hermione back, her face five centimetres away from hers. "I hate you, Pansy, I hate you like I've never hated anyone before in my life! But I'll never go as low as to ruin your life like you ruined mine! I should go out in the corridors and scream at who-wants-to-hear-it that you're a dyke, and that you're disgusting, and that's the closest thing I can do to replicate what you did with me by saying that I'm a Mudblood! But I won't do it! Do you know why?! Because I'm fundamentally a better person than you are! And it's not about your sexual orientation or my blood status or what not, it's about being able to sleep safe and sound because I know I'm a good person and you aren't!"
Granger took out her wand so fast Pansy had barely the time to process her speech and her actions. She felt the hard tip of it against her chin.
"I won't menace you with your sexuality, Pansy. But if you don't realise life isn't all black and white and that blood status and appearances don't build your future, I'll make sure you'll remember me until your last breath. I'll carve my name on your skin and my face on your heart so that you will never be able to live without remembering every day the way you insulted me for years."
"Get away from me," hissed Pansy through gritted teeth.
Hermione softened her grip, but didn't put her wand back into her pocket.
"Why do you always want to make things so difficult?"
"I don't want to make things difficult," spat Pansy back. "I just like seeing you angry."
Hermione opened her eyes wider and Pansy immediately regretted saying this.
"So you admit you're obsessed with me?" she murmured, her voice low and a bit menacing.
"Yes, I'm obsessed with you, Granger!" exclaimed Pansy, gripping the wall for support. Her brain was overheating, and Granger's breath against her lips didn't help her to function normally either. "Succeeding in making you so mad that you yell at me is exactly like a reward, alright?! And I don't know why! And it's starting to make my life considerably harder now that you—"
"Now that I bite back?" interrupted the brunette. "Good job, Pans'. You've made me reach my fucking limits, and you're getting what you want."
She suddenly opened the door of the cupboard and put her wand back in her robes.
"But that doesn't mean I'll let you enjoy your sick game anymore. From now on, I make the rules, and you will lose and beg for mercy," Granger said in the coldest voice Pansy had ever heard her use.
On those words, Granger disappeared in the corridors between some Sixth Years.
The cupboard seemed to vibrate with the echo of Hermione's footsteps, the air still warm and sharp with the intensity she had left behind. Pansy stood frozen, her back pressed to the shelf, breath stalled somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The darkness felt heavier than before, thick with the residue of their fight.
She tried to swallow. Her tongue felt like sand.
Beg for mercy? Hermione had said it without blinking, without a tremor of hesitation, as though she had been holding that line in reserve, saving it for the exact moment it would strike deepest. The confidence in her voice still scraped against Pansy's skin, leaving marks she could not see but certainly felt.
Pansy inhaled sharply, then instantly regretted it. The scent still lingered. That maddening, familiar softness that clung to Hermione like a spell designed to torment her. It stirred something in Pansy's chest, something too warm, too alive, something that twisted into places she could not control.
Her knees weakened. She sat down on the crate behind her, too hard, the wood creaking under her weight.
This was insane. This was absolutely, clinically insane.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Anger should have been the only thing in her veins right now. Fury was safe. Fury was expected. Fury was the only emotion she had ever allowed herself to feel around Hermione.
Yet her pulse still stumbled at the memory of Granger leaning forward, pressing her forearm against her throat, speaking through clenched teeth, her breath brushing Pansy's lips in the heat of their argument.
Pansy lowered her hands, fingers trembling.
What on earth was happening to her?
The fight had left her blood fizzing, her heart pounding not only with rage but with something dangerously close to... arousal.
No. Absolutely not. She refused to acknowledge that word.
Her nails dug into her palms, the sting grounding her slightly as panic tightened around her ribs.
This is Granger, she told herself. Granger. The girl she hated most. The girl who ruined her sheets and her hair and her days and her sanity. The girl who bit back her every chance she got. The girl who challenged her in ways no one else dared.
The girl who, moments ago, had been close enough that Pansy could have counted the freckles on her nose if there had been light. Close enough that she had felt Hermione's fury like heat on her skin. Close enough that Pansy's own breath had faltered, not out of fear, but out of something far more dangerous.
A sound escaped her, half a laugh and half a sob. She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified.
She had been turned on. Not just a little bit. By Granger's voice. By her anger. By the razor-edge of her control.
Impossible. Humiliating. Terrifying.
Pansy's knickers were terrifyingly damp, and she couldn't ignore it.
She curled forward, elbows on her knees, breathing unevenly in the suffocating dark. She could still feel Hermione's grip on her wrist, the ghost of it, as though her skin remembered what her mind denied.
This was not normal. This was not acceptable. This was not something she could ever allow herself to admit to anyone. Not even Tracey. Not even in her own mind.
Hermione had walked away victorious.
And the growing desire to make her lose again was making heat pool down Pansy's stomach. The idea of seeing her confidence break and her eyes widen made her thighs clench.
Pansy forced herself out of the cupboard the moment her breathing stopped wobbling. Her eyes still burned, and her throat felt raw, but she held her head high as she stepped into the corridor. She moved quickly, not wanting anyone to see her face in this state, not caring if she nearly walked straight into a pair of confused first years.
The nearest toilet was empty. Thank Merlin.
She closed the door behind her and leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain so tightly her knuckles whitened. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she flinched. Her eyes were rimmed with red beneath the powder. Black smudges clung to her lower lashes. Her lips were colorless. She looked shaken.
Weak.
A hot wave of shame rolled up her spine.
Granger knew her secret. Granger could end her life by snapping her fingers. She said she wouldn't, but still, she detained power over Pansy. And the latter hated that.
She needed to find a way to break Granger's balance, something else than the virulent casualties they shared daily.
She grabbed a wad of paper towels and pressed them harshly beneath her eyes, wiping away any trace of tears, refusing to let even a memory of them remain. Splashing cold water across her cheeks helped steady her breathing, though her hands trembled as she reached for her makeup bag.
Routine would save her. Precision. Control.
Foundation first. She dabbed it on methodically, smoothing it over every uneven patch. Powder next, setting everything in place. Dark circles were concealed layer by layer until no sign of distress remained. A touch of rouge restored color to her cheeks. She reapplied eyeliner with a steady hand, forcing the line to remain sharp even as her vision blurred for a moment.
She blinked the last of the sting away, inhaled, and examined her work.
Perfect. Polished. Impenetrable.
Hermione Granger could have been a distant fever dream. A hallucination. A mistake she would never repeat.
Pansy snapped her compact shut and let her mask lock into place.
By the time she left the bathroom, no one would have suspected that she had nearly fallen apart over a single girl's voice, and get horny about it.
The walk to Herbology felt mechanical, each step chosen, controlled, deliberate. The autumn wind cooled her flushed cheeks, carrying the damp scent of the greenhouses. Students gathered in clusters outside the glass doors, talking loudly, greeting one another, laughing.
She saw Blaise leaning against a crate of pots, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Draco wasn't far, Vincent and Gregory emitting groans of approbation at the end of each sentence of the blonde's monologue. Blaise glanced up as she approached, one eyebrow lifting in silent question.
She didn't look at him.
As Professor Sprout called the class to attention, Pansy kept her gaze fixed on the plants ahead, ignoring Blaise's presence entirely.
"Come on, Pansy, are you going to talk to me?" Blaise whispered, as other students were beginning to gather their pots and scissors.
"What do you want me to say? Thank you for being such a shitty friend, Blaise?"
"You know how the guys are, and you were fine with it until recently, so..."
"Was I? Or were you just too self absorbed not to notice I always hated being treated like a common whore?"
"Then maybe don't act like one!" exclaimed Blaise, exasperated. "I know it's just an image you're trying to give yourself, I know it's appearances, Pansy, I'm not dumb! I know you've been masking all your life, because honestly, who would act this shallow and centred around men like their cock was all they could think about?! I know you're not like that, and I'm trying to make you realise it's tiring. I feel like... I feel like I don't know you. I've tried to, but you always led the conversation back to sex."
"So that's your way of wanting to get to know me more? Insulting me and manipulating me instead of saying what you want out loud?" said Pansy coldly, arranging her scissors on the table in front of them.
"I'm sorry," replied Blaise through gritted teeth. "But when I saw you dance with that girl yesterday, I understood that I was right, and..."
Pansy pinched the bridge of her nose. She was sick and tired of talking about this today.
"And what?"
"Life is going to be really hard for you, Pansy. If you're really what I think you are, then... it won't be easy. Your parents could curse you or disinherit you over this in the best case scenario, and in the worst case scenario..."
Pansy kept her jaw clenched so hard her teeth hurt.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I can offer you the safety you lack if you decide to assume the truth to me."
"What?!"
"We could pretend to be in love. Our parents will love it, and we can both see other people. You can date girls, boys, I don't care. It's just about appearances. We'll get married like it's probably bound to happen anyway, and I'll let you fulfil your needs with other people. Our parents would never know."
Pansy looked at him, and he took his hand under the table.
"Seeing you happy with that girl yesterday made me realise I wanted to see you like that. You were smiling, and you looked so... I don't know. Normal. Unguarded. Think, Pansy. I'm offering something no men or women could ever offer you. Safety, a good lifestyle, and..."
"You're going too far, Blaise," Pansy cut off.
She heard him swallow.
"Think about it," repeated Blaise. "Think about what's best for you. And stop pushing me away."
Pansy refused to look at him. She took her hand off his and began to carefully cut her mandragora tentacles, her fingers trembling around the scissors.
At the other end of the table, Granger was laughing with Greengrass, Potter and Weasley. They were gathered around a single pot, Hermione explaining something with a small animated smile, Daphne leaning her chin on Hermione's shoulder with amused fondness, Potter watching with attention, and Weasley laughing too loudly at something Harry muttered under his breath.
They looked comfortable. Effortlessly so.
Hermione nudged Daphne in the ribs when she teased her about mislabeling a plant. Daphne shoved her back. Weasley tried to interject with a joke and got playfully smacked on the arm by Hermione, and Potter nearly dropped his gloves because he was laughing too hard.
The scene hurt.
Not sharply. Not like humiliation or anger or the familiar burn of rivalry. This feeling was duller, deeper, an ache Pansy did not have a name for. She watched the four of them for a long moment, unable to look away.
Friendship looked warm.
Pansy had acquaintances. People like Tracey or Millicent, who tolerated her because she was sharp and witty and could insult half the school in thirty seconds flat. She had status. She had reputation. She had presence.
But she did not have this. Whatever this was.
The way Hermione leaned into Daphne without hesitation. The way Potter's eyes softened whenever the blonde girl spoke. The way Weasley looked at all of them like he had finally found the right table to sit at during his lunch breaks. They were four wildly different people, yet somehow they fit.
It fascinated Pansy. And it hurt.
Would Hermione tell Daphne what had happened in the cupboard? Did she laugh about it? Did she mimic Pansy's panic or describe the way Pansy choked on her words? Did she confide something softer, something real? Did she admit anything at all?
Pansy imagined Hermione and Daphne sitting together on their dormitory beds, knees brushing, voices low. Hermione's head tilted as she whispered secrets into her friend's shoulder. Daphne listening with that calm, patient expression she always wore around her.
The image twisted something sharp inside Pansy's chest.
She wanted that. Wanted someone she could speak to without calculating every syllable, someone who didn't judge her worth based on cruelty or composure or tradition. Someone she could trust with the parts of herself she did not understand. Someone she didn't have to hide from.
Her gaze flicked toward Blaise.
He stood a few centimetres away, trimming the leaves of his plant with steady, precise movements. His eyes were lowered, his expression unreadable, but the set of his shoulders told her he was aware of her watching him.
He wasn't Hermione. He wasn't Daphne. They weren't soft together. They weren't the type of friends who whispered secrets in the dark. They were childhood friends, sure, but they hadn't shared any bonding moments. Blaise had always been there, but distant.
Yet he was… here.
He had always been here, even when he was irritated with her, even when they didn't talk.
Pansy swallowed, throat tight. Her fingers twisted uselessly in the hem of her robe. Blaise kept pruning his plant. Pansy opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her chest tightened painfully.
Say it, she ordered herself.
She took a breath and let the words fall, soft, fragile, barely audible over the sound of the greenhouse vents.
"I think I'm a lesbian."
Blaise's clippers paused mid-air.
He did not gasp. He did not stare. He did not ask for confirmation or explanation or details. He simply set the metal tool down on the table, not even turning fully toward her.
Pansy kept her eyes on the floor, bracing for mockery, or dismissal, or disappointment. Her stomach twisted so tightly it hurt. She had never said the words aloud before. They tasted like fear and like freedom.
Then a cold hand slipped into hers.
She looked up.
Blaise's expression was calm. Neutral, even. He nodded once. As if she had just told him something as unremarkable as the weather. His hand tightened around hers, just enough to anchor her, just enough to say I know without needing to speak.
Pansy blinked rapidly, eyes burning again. This time she did not wipe them angrily; she simply let herself breathe.
For the first time since she had woken up this morning, she did not feel like her entire world was collapsing in on itself. She did not have Hermione's warmth. She did not have the laughter of that four-person friendship she envied.
But she had Blaise's hand wrapped around hers in a quiet greenhouse, a small gesture that felt like more than she deserved, more than she had expected, and exactly what she needed.
She squeezed back.
Pansy's gaze drifted back toward Hermione as soon as Blaise released her hand and returned to trimming leaves. She told herself it was only habit. She told herself Hermione was simply loud, spreading her knowledge in class to everyone though no one ever listened, simply distracting, simply in the way of her thoughts. But her eyes found her anyway.
Hermione stood with her curls pulled back in a loose ponytail that still allowed a wild halo of strands to frame her face. Her hair always looked like it was moments away from breaking free entirely, like a spring tense to the extreme. Sunlight from the greenhouse roof caught in the brown waves. Her skin, flushed faintly from the humid air, glowed in a way that made Pansy's breath tangle in her throat. Granger's mouth looked soft, focused, slightly pursed as she explained something to Harry. Her hands moved delicately, precisely, every gesture full of that infuriating certainty she carried everywhere. Even the smudge of soil on her cheek made her look more alive, more real. Pansy thought she looked like an oil painting.
She stared longer than she meant to. Long enough to admit silently that Hermione Granger wasn't ugly. She was definitely not pretty in the fragile, polished way Pansy herself curated. Granger was pretty in a way that felt like a challenge. Like sunlight that could not be dimmed after a long summer day. It drove Pansy wild. It drove her furious.
Anger had been the only reaction she managed to pull from Hermione so far, and at first Pansy had thought that was enough. Fury was something she understood. It was familiar. Safe. Predictable. But now that she had tasted something different, the flicker of tension in that cupboard, the way Hermione's breathing quickened every time they were close, Pansy found anger painfully insufficient.
She wanted more. She knew she shouldn't. She had already wanked thinking about Granger once, for Merlin's sake! (She had just decided that she must have had lost her mind that day and forced herself not to think about it ever again, but the aftertaste still haunted her thoughts after everyone had turned off their lamp in the dorm.)
She wanted Hermione to react to her in a way that was not simply born of spite. She wanted to see confusion in those brown eyes. Or anything that proved Pansy could reach her, shake her, pull something from her that no one else could.
Pansy had been weak enough today. But now, Blaise was by her side, kind of, and she didn't feel so lonely anymore. Tonight would be the night things changed between Granger and herself.
Pansy wanted to unravel this bitch in other ways than rage. And she already had some... ideas.